Today I had a half day to stay home and relax. I used it to bake cinnamon rolls, cuddle with the dogs, and read comic books.

For those of you who like retold fairy tales, status quo subversions, epic fantasy with a feminist bent, and princesses of color, I highly recommend “Princeless.”

I love that what a comic book is, what comics can be about, and who their main characters can be, is evolving with our culture. It’s nice to read a fun adventure story that stars a spunky young princess who cares about her damseled sisters and marginalized twin brother, who rescues herself from a dragon-guarded tower, who questions authority and the fairy tale status quo, and who does all these supremely awesome things and more—while looking like me.

Tonight, a friend and I watched Hayao Miyazaki’s film Ponyo, and loved it. Ponyo is brilliant and fun and sweet all the way through. The characters are well-rounded and sympathetic, the plot twisted in ways I didn’t anticipate, and the storytelling was as superb as the art.

I fully intend to show it to my little siblings (“the tykes”). I’m sure they’ll love it for both reasons similar to, and different from, mine.

Those are two things good movies (stories) do for people: they evoke strong emotional responses; and contain layers that allow viewers of all ages to enjoy and understand the same story and characters in myriad ways—and often in changing ways, too, for as people get older, the same stories resonate on different levels.

At this age, I doubt the tykes will admire Sosuke’s mother as much as I do, or sympathize as strongly with Ponyo’s father. But they will probably love Ponyo and Sosuke, and laugh at the water-spitting, and marvel at the giant fish. What they remember about the film will be different from what I remember, this time around. But who knows—perhaps we’ll all watch the film again when we’re older, and the nuances we notice will have changed.

One can do that with good movies, good stories. And as Ponyo is just such a story, I look forward to seeing how how it’s changed—really, how I’ve changed—at the next go-around.